


Tango

by yeaka



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Clubbing, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-04-24 22:49:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14365353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Ignis always finds Noctis when he sneaks out.





	Tango

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “Ignis and Noctis bumping and grinding in a club and it being a very heated thing. -Bottom Noct if smut is involved” prompt on [the FFXV kinkmeme](https://ffxv-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/4747.html?thread=9578379#cmt9578379).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Final Fantasy XV or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The drinks are bad but the dance floor’s amazing, or maybe that’s just because he’s wanted to be on it for so long. After a grueling week of college classes, council meetings, volunteer work, and having Gladio knock him out on the training field, it’s so good to just be _free_. Noctis moves like the music’s _inside him_ , animating his body beyond his own control. He dances for a while with Prompto, the two of them standing uncomfortably close within the pulsing crowd. But the style of the music and the liquor in the drinks just makes Noctis want something _closer_ , and his best friend’s not the right person for that. Besides, Prompto keeps trying to leave him for the ladies. Loyal as a dog, he always comes back to Noctis, but Noctis can see the hunger in his eyes.

So Noctis finally pulls Prompto in and yells into his ear, “Just go for it!” Prompto tilts his head like he didn’t catch that, and Noctis has to practically mouth against his lobe, “Dance with her, dude!”

That seems to make it over the pounding music, and Prompto beams. He looks even cuter under the flashing coloured lights, but cute’s not what Noctis is going for. Prompto’s response is lost amongst the din, but he flitters obediently off. Noctis is left alone, keeping one eye on his friend just in case. A pretty redhead quickly fills the space, but Noctis turns away from her. He’s dressed down and styled his hair as differently as possible, trying to gain some anonymity in a club on Insomnia’s very outskirts, but there’s no point taking chances. And it’s not just a fear of being recognized. He wouldn’t take her home anyway. 

For the next few songs, Noctis dances alone, just feeling the rhythm and letting go. It’s hot, too hot, and the spotlights make it worse, but he’s into it. He just wishes he could grind as hard as some of the couples around him—that he had someone to grind _into_. He turns towards the bar, figuring another drink might dull that want away. But then his eyes catch a familiar face squeezing through the crowd, and he pauses.

Dual impulses war inside him—the urge to _run_ before he’s caught and dragged back to his father with a scathing report, but also the urge to dance for his life and put his all into it: perform the sort of mating dance that _no one_ could resist, even the most uptight and unforgiving. In the end, he just stays where he is, swaying lightly, while Ignis swims towards him. 

Lithe and nimble, Ignis makes it in no time. He skillfully maneuvers his way right into Noctis’ little bubble, and he says something that the club’s ambiance eats right up. Noctis shakes his head to show he hasn’t heard, and Ignis personifies a sigh. Then he leans in closer, far more so than Noctis did with Prompto, enough that Noctis can feel the ghost of Ignis’ lips along the shell of his ear. Ignis doesn’t shout, just tells him, firm and powerful, “This is highly inappropriate.”

Noctis snorts, because only Ignis could say it like _that_ , so formal and stuffy, even though he’s only a few years Noctis’ senior. Noctis counters anyway, “I’m a young man with hormones—it was bound to happen soon or later!”

Ignis pulls away from Noctis’ shouting, even though it’s necessary in this place. He parts his lips, likely to argue more, but then they close again and his eyes squint instead. He lifts one hand to capture Noctis’ chin, too quick for Noctis to avoid. He’s wearing the same driving gloves that he so often does, and the faux leather is a cool relief to Noctis’ boiling skin. Ignis tilts Noctis’ face towards himself, peering down. When he’s finished, he doesn’t let Noctis go, just tilts to say into Noctis’ ear again, “What’ve you done to your eyes?”

“Makeup,” Noctis grunts, though it’s obvious. “Nice disguise, right?” It was Prompto’s idea, really, and Noctis hadn’t been so keen on it—until Prompto brought up the point that cheap clothes and a new hairstyle alone wouldn’t stop many people from recognizing their crown prince. And Noctis is sure it’d be a _very_ different night if he were recognized.

Ignis, apparently, would know him anywhere, and though Ignis looks at him thoughtfully, it doesn’t seem like Ignis approves of the changes. If they were at home with enough quiet to _talk_ , Ignis would probably tell him that his face was perfectly fine as it was. 

Ignis is entirely too stiff for the club. Ignis stands over Noctis, obvious and immobile. While they stare each other down at that impasse, Noctis reaches out for Ignis’ hips. Ignis’ breath visibly catches the moment Noctis’ hands are on him. Under the circumstances, it’s just easier to show than to tell. Spreading his fingers along the textured fabric of Ignis’ jeans, Noctis guides Ignis’ hips into a simple back and forth movement. He tries to force Ignis to sway. And he lifts up on his toes to explain, “You’re going to blow my cover being so conspicuous!”

Ignis hesitates, but Noctis is right. Despite a begrudging look, Ignis moves with Noctis’ hands, shifting back and forth. It’s not _quite_ enough, but it’s better than nothing. Noctis dances with him. Ignis pushes, “You really should come home, Noct.”

“There’re a lot of things I should do!” Noctis counters. Ignis doesn’t look amused. He has to reach for Noctis’ shoulders, holding both and tugging him in to keep them close enough to talk—Noctis keeps trying to dance away from that. 

“What will it take to get you out of this cesspool?” He may as well have said, ‘What must _I_ do?’, because Noctis knows that Ignis would do anything. His disapproval with everything—the noise, the patrons, the utter lack of security—is palpable. And he’d _always_ do anything for Noctis. 

Still, it’s enough to kill Noctis’ buzz. He can only ever torture Ignis for so long. So he does a fair bit of grumbling, but he concedes, “One more song...” And as Ignis nods appreciatively, Noctis adds, “...If you dance it with me!”

Ignis blinks down at him. Noctis meets that gaze. He wants to go out on a bang. Ignis nods again: locking in the deal.

It’s not hard to tell when the next song starts a second later: it takes the club by storm, booming over the speakers and echoing off the walls. Noctis lifts his hands into the air, joining the energy of the cheering crowd. And Ignis goes _off_.

With his hips now free of Noctis’ grip, they move all on their own, gliding back and forth to the throbbing rhythm. His arms hesitate for only a fraction of a second before they thrust over Noctis’ shoulders, as though they don’t know where else to go, and holding on will have to do. Ignis seems to take that point of contact like a grounding force, and the rest of his body is thrown into his movements. His eyes _burn_ behind his glasses, fixed on Noctis and refusing to let go. 

For the intro of the song, they move like that, jutting out but thoroughly connected. Then the drop comes, and Ignis’ hands slide back, tracing down Noctis’ collarbone, falling along his chest as Ignis thrusts into him, jerking forward now instead of side to side. Ignis plants one hand firmly against Noctis’ breast, fingers splaying out across his pec, while the other arm wraps around his neck and tugs him in. Noctis is both taken by surprise and blown away. He lets himself be drawn right into Ignis’ grip. Ignis hogs him, pulls him insufferably close, keeps him isolated from all the other dancers in some sort of lewd protection. It works; Noctis doesn’t even look at anyone else. Just Ignis. Ignis thrusts up against him, and for a split second, Noctis thinks he can feel _everything_ beneath their clothes. 

Ignis drags along him. Ignis rocks into him. The chorus blares, and Ignis grinds into him like a thirsty dancer in a music video. Noctis finds his hands coming down around Ignis’ waist again. He finds himself grinding back. Ignis’ lips really do graze Noctis’ ear when he leans in to ask, strangely husky, “Is this what you wanted?”

Noctis can only mutter, “Yeah.” He’s not sure if Ignis heard him, and it doesn’t matter. He’s sure he’s probably blushing. Which is saying something. He’s not easy to crack, but this definitely does the trick.

Ignis quickly takes him over. Ignis is suddenly the one guiding him; Noctis arches into each of Ignis’ touches and moves where Ignis moves. He was already warm, but the proximity and intimacy skyrockets his temperature, not to mention the view. Ignis’ cheeks don the slightest flush, but it’s not enough—one song can’t tug him down into the deprived depths that Noctis wants. Noctis wants to fog his glasses up. Noctis wants to put Ignis on his tab and check out the back rooms. 

He doesn’t even notice when the song ends. He only knows it’s over because Ignis comes to a screeching halt. His hands dart to Noctis’ wrists, holding on tight, and he purrs right into Noctis, “I’m afraid time’s up, Your Highness. You’re coming home.”

Somehow, Noctis finds himself mumbling, “Yes, Sir.”

With a faint smile, Ignis turns and tugs him towards the door, grabbing Prompto by the scruff of his neck on their quick way out.


End file.
